Burnt Light
by Innocence Greed
Summary: "The only thing I felt was a burnt light, along the darkness, keeping me alive..." When Gray Mann wants to take over Mann Co, the Administrator hire a professional killer, named Arizona. A long and painful journey begins along the RED mercenaries, facing danger and ghosts of the past. And what if she is the key to stop the evil plans of Gray Mann?
1. Chapter 1: Shadow and prey

**A/N: Well, I'm nervous. This is my first story in english, as well my first TF2 fanfic. I'm not a native english speaker, so I apologize for any wrong sentences and errors in the chapter... I'm basically doing it for pleasure, and I hope I'll finish it one day, either in french or english. A big thanks to _Govnuh_ for checking the chapter and correcting most of the errors. Just l****eave me a review to tell me what do you think, if my story is good or bad, if I should change something... Give me some constructive reviews! The first chapter was a bit long, so i cut it in two. publish it in the same time, though.**

**Rated M, because of the language (scout's fault), violence (everyone's fault) and, but later, some allusions to drugs (hallicinations). I'll try to do my best to respect the temper of the mercenaries as well. The first chapters will mostly consist to introduce my OC to the band and place the story with the first plots. **

**I don't own Team Fortress, Vavle's owning it. I only own my characters. Enjoy !**

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**Chapter one: Shadow and prey**

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_Headshot._

A straight bullet perforated a distracted BLU's head, surely sending him to the respawn room. The Sniper, wearing the Reliable Excavation Demolition armorial bearings, smiled. Since the mission started, thirteen bullets were fired, and thirteen BLUs were killed. And he was more pleased since every shot ended in the head.

His sight was like one of the Administrator's thousands of cameras: he was seeing everything, any movement or facial expression through his scope, any details or men. And if a foe was inattentive, he was headshot, and out from the action. As well, Teufort was an advantage itself for their war: their red uniforms merged with the red desert sand, while the Builders League United team was even more apparent. But even with that, they were a little late, and the BLUs were taking over them.

The mission started fifteen minutes ago, each mercenary killing themselves to master the control point. Time was running, each team trying to dominate the other. The REDs were maybe not as advanced as their rivals, but they became more tricky and reckless by time. And even if Sniper wasn't as lethal as a Heavy or an Engineer at the front line, his distant work was at least as much important than theirs.

Though the scope, he surveyed his favorite hunting territory. It was as deserted as the dry canyons around them since he managed to kill the adverse sniper, who probably chose a different spot to strike, like his fellow the Spy, whose Sniper slaughtered him with his kukri. He was only waiting for an enemy to be careless enough to come across his rifle, hidden in his raised shed. Unless somebody discovered his hideout and he had to leave, it was the perfect spot for him: he was invisible from all eyes, almost undetectable. The bushman took another swallow from his coffee, before returning to his main occupation. #1 Sniper was printed on the white cup. Coffee was his greatest friend, taking away all exhaustion or boredom from his thoughts.

Few minutes passed. He managed to take down a Scout and a Medic, who were dangerously coming closer to the point. The mission was almost over, and, for once, they were going toward the victory.

Suddenly, he saw something. A shadow, between a crate and a wall, hidden in the darkness. A profile, taking shape in the half light, a sort of vague silhouette camouflaged in the landscape. The Aussie concentrated, giving his entire attention to this thing, waiting with patience. He thought that it was a brief hallucination, due to the large amount of caffeine in his blood, until it moved. It made a soft jump to get in the base, without any fear of the echoes of bullets and screams. The shadow cautiously scurried, making sure it was off any looks. Then, it went out the twilight. The bushman was even more surprised when he saw the man who was under the cloak of shadows.

He was wearing some kind of tanned mantle, dissimulating his weight, the color of his skin, giving confusion regarding to his size. A large hood covered his head, and again, any sign of distinction, like his hair or its length. It was more strange since the intruder was wearing a red scarf to hide his face, with weird goggles, looking like Engineer's protective glasses. He couldn't see a piece of his body. With light, flexible steps, he ran to the BLU Sniper's shack, raised with concrete pillions. Even if the outsider was heavily equipped, he moved without trouble, with speed in the red, arid dust of the desert, concealing himself in silence and discretion. Sniper reloaded his gun, in a mechanical motion, and once again, stared into the scope. He was waiting, watching the area. Sniper's finger was shaking upon the trigger, preparing himself to shot him in the head, until he swore in surprise.

Through the binocular, he saw him stretching, ready to climb the pillar next to him, to reach the shack. He kept looking for a support, touching the concrete columns to find them. "Freaking spook... What the bloody hell!" Sniper told to himself, while observing the stranger. He started his ascension, climbing with ease the concrete structure, with smooth and experienced moves. He could only contemplate the outsider with his confused blue eyes. The skilled, frenetic speed of his movements, and his stealth, were almost fascinating. A violent explosion distracted him, making him turn his end while he was almost at the end of the climb. While he was looking to the smoke raising to the sky, Sniper narrowed his eyes. An object was exceeding his cloak, a long, extended cylinder shape. "Bloody hell!" Those shapes were those of a weapon, similar to his.

Before the Australian could do anything to stop him, the man broke the only window of the shack, on top of his head, by a skilled jump. And before Sniper could keep him in aim, he disappeared into the hideout, without any other member of the RED team noticing. The intruder was here to kill.

…

Getting inside the raised shack was easy. It only took me patience, especially to wait for the mercenaries to naturally move on. And, as it was agreed, no one saw me, or even doubted of my presence in the base. I was suffocating under my mantle, but, at least, it was giving me one of the best disguise to fuse into the desert. Earlier, I saw this refuge when I was scouting the territory, and immediately manage to get in there. It was ridiculously simple: my trainings in the canyons of the south were much harder. I just had to break a window, and I was in.

Before making any movement, I examined the inside with an attentive look, right after my refraction. It was as I imagined it: dusty, poorly lit, only accessible by metallic stairs on the floor. The room had a musty, old smell in it; was as hot as the outside. Very little sunshine could filter through the barricades on the opposite wall, and gave a perfect spot to any sniper to shoot, without any agitation, and protection. The only opening, now nailed by worn planks, was upon the entire battlefield, letting the hot wind get in. I fainted a smile. There was some wooden crates left on the floor revealed, as I thought, that this was a sniper hideaway: and it was all I needed to let my M21 look for my target. I took a seat on one of the case, observing the various objects placed on them. An empty chips bag was crackling at the blows of the wind, a cold coffee pot was placed on a crate, beside a white cup. Some unused ammo was lying on the floor.

Screams and fired bullets were disturbing the usual silence. I took a long and deep breath, since my respiration was more difficult with my scarf on my face. I pulled out my rifle from my mantle with care, with my gloved hands, positioning it between two planks. Before getting to work, I took a quick swallow to the coffee pot next to me. I almost puked when I swallowed it: the taste was horrible, besides the tepid warmth of the mixture. I put it back where it was, definitely disgusted, and set myself back to my work. I dropped my eyes through the scope, testing the ground as I reloaded the black gun. I waited, just gazing at the battlefield, until my target came up to the light. I was going to kill another man, a total stranger to me. What will he be thinking when I shoot him? What was his past? Was he married, or did he have kids? He just signed his death when I accepted the death contract. And he couldn't escape me, I was too professional and experienced to miss him. What had he done, yet, to attract the Reaper? Wanted to steal some kind of information in a briefcase, or something? And, for last, I had to sit for 37 hours straight to get in this bloody city.

I swiped off those thoughts in my mind. I was going to get paid for this kill, like I always did, and like I was going to do, without any remorse. So, I waited, as the cold blooded killer I was.

I saw a tall, big bald man explode from a rocket. My eyes narrowed. I was almost sure I saw him, and another guy, being burnt to death few minutes ago... But I wasn't allowed to pay attention to those things. I had to concentrate. I have always had the nerves for this: to wait, be patient, analyze... I knew I had to use it to survive into this wide and cruel world. And I was right: I was more light and vivacious then others, I had fluidity in my steps and smoothness in my moves... all sort of habits, tiny qualities way too strange for most of the folks that made me climb on the top of domination on men.

Something caught my attention. An outline was managing to leave the base, easily going through the battlefield without a sign. Just a like a shadow. Was he my target, trying to escape the sight of my rifle? The young woman informed me of the danger: I had to kill him, at any cost, before he took me off. But, even if I was engaged to eliminate someone, I had to be careful: I hadn't the right to warn the mercenaries, who were not aware of my actions. And even if I failed without any blue or red guy dead, it will be the old rag who will chase me. So, I tried to grin and bear it, until I could recognize the man, and just shot him.

He constantly was trying to walk along the buildings facade, stay in his refuge of shadows. He quickly arrived to a cul-de-sac, and, after a short moment of reflection, he realized he was obliged to get into the light. My innate senses were exciting. The few seconds separating me to the truth were unbearable. Unwillingly, he stepped out of the dark to search for another way to escape, below the blazing sun. He was, at my biggest surprise, at the opposite from me: wearing very light clothes, a black suit along a black scarf, covering his face as well as me, with 50' felt hat: I recognized him instantly. He was, just like I was, hiding from the others. But the most important detail was the bright blue suitcase in his hands. My pulse raced, the finger on my M21's trigger shivered. It was was indeed him, the target I managed to pursue, in almost an animal psyche.

Before I could even take my aim, or hold my breath to succeed my shot, a grinding resonated in between the walls of the shack. A suspicion took possession of my crazy mind. I felt a presence, someone keeping an eye on me, waiting for any breach, in the death angle of my sight. I grabbed my attention out from the unhoped moment, swearing inwardly.

The silence returned.

In the greatest immobility, my muscles tensed. I carefully listened to any noise. My hearing alerted me from a possible danger, and the old, crispy planks cannot lie. I slowly turned my head, imitating a normal stretch. My eyes surveyed the room: there were only shadows, dancing on the walls, avoiding the blinding sun.  
I heard another grinding, much longer than the first one. And, before I could lay my eyes on what was concealed in the darkness, I was caught in the lion's den.


	2. Chapter 2: Covered in blood

**Second part, here we go. I think I will have very big chapters ahead, so I will just cut it in two, like the 1st/2nd one. **

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**Chapter 2: Covered in blood**

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"Our intelligence was stolen! Retrieve the briefcase, at ANY cost!" The administrator voice resonated in the whole battleground, marked by anger.

The Builders League United was panicked, demented by the Administrator's announcement, and were almost disoriented by the loss of their precious good. But since the mission wasn't finished, and the count ended, there will not be any pause for today's war, or any stop. The most stubborn were staying to the front line, like the BLU Heavy and Soldier, while the others were desperately trying to retrieve the briefcase.

Sniper jumped a little when he eared the message of the old lady. He automatically though about the strange man, in the shack. Was it him? And, for what reason would he steal the intelligence? Few things could surprise the cold nerved Aussie, but this one as a part of it. Even if the orders were intended for the BLU team, a shiver crossed his back. Only a clever man could do this, with the mercenaries and thousands of cameras around. He was keeping an eye to the hideaway since, and he didn't see any agitation, or even the man itself. But this was until a loud crash informed him of a possible twist in the situation.

The planks who protected the window's barricade, smashed to pieces, to obey to the gravity laws and crashed to the red dusty ground. He saw two blurred shadows, beginning a death duel in the wooden platform, as the light filled the place. He recognized the cloaked man, jumping, dodging the bloody butterfly knife of the BLU Spy, attacking him with the intent to kill. The stranger was hardly avoiding the blade of the Frenchman, a part of his mantle covered in blood. It was fast, too fast to react for an average human, and as the seconds passed, the outsider was getting weaker.

Sniper thought in a hurry, and started to aim at the Spy, his inner instinct encouraging him to do this.

"Oh, Piss."

His acts will surely have repercussions.

…

In similar cases, time ceased to flow, the seconds become never-ending hours. There is always a small reaction time, when we can either chose to gaze at the abyss that opens under our feet, or either be vivacious enough to escape it.

When this man appeared in front of me, emerging from the shadows with plumes of smoke, I stared him with wide eyes. He just appeared out of nowhere. His navy-blue suit was matching with a same-colored balaclava, covering his face save for his blues eyes and his thin lips. He raised his eyebrows when he saw me in my tanned disguise, but quickly decided to slay me. I realized just in time what was happening: he was hurling himself at me, ready to cut each member of my body. I threw my favorite gun on the worn floor, to launch myself on the planks. His knife sliced my left arm as I was falling on the floor. Concerning my attacker, he finished his charge in the barricade, destroying the whole barrier: but he didn't fall off the opening he freshly created, and, by the sound of his growls, was pissed off. My brain was screaming danger, while my heart was overwhelmed by a sudden rush of adrenaline. He looked at me, once again, with his insensible eyes. I quickly understood that I was now his prey, and was no longer the hunter. I hurrily got back on my feet, to prepare to fight the cold blooded man. I had to survive and finish the contract.

He was fast, extremely fast: barely after getting up, he attacked a second time, without letting me a second to take my breath. My close combat skills were good enough for the average, but was ridiculously low in front of his. I could barely jump to dodge his hits, or step backwards with my wounded arm, which made me lose my balance. Blood began to cover the cloak. This time, time wasn't slowing or ceasing to flow, but started to accelerate. Every parry was narrowly successful, too narrowly to take any advantage.  
The masked man powerfully charged again, his dagger in his two hands, aiming for my head, and ready to slice me. I guessed his move but, due to a lack of time, I was only able to grab his wrists with my bare hands, and hope that I could prevent it. He gently laughed. He was much stronger than me, and, even if I tried to push as hard as I could, the iron blade was dangerously getting closer to my skull. I made, in a stupid and desperate attempt, a sweep, right in his legs. Without expecting a such predictable circumstances, he fell on me, with all his weight. We fell on the very edge of the shack, our faces in the void.

The man in blue proudly smiled. He raised his butterfly knife, blocking me with his whole body.

"You thought you could escape from here? You're going to die," he said, with a French accent.

I never believed in a god. All my life, I only believed in the survival of the fittest. My past years through the rude desert of the Mojaves and other wastelands had taught me this: death was everywhere, and only the toughest could survive, the weakest were doomed to perish. This was simple, but it was how life was built: if an animal wasn't adapted to his environment, he died, or was eaten by another by his amount of trust or lack of intelligence. By violence, intelligence, betrayal... we all had to survive, one way or another. So, I accepted my death, even if I couldn't believe it. In this world, only the toughest survive.

I started to think that he mistook me for my own target. He was watching me with wrath, even disgust. I took a long breath, to filled my lungs with the hot, dry air from the desert. It was going to miss me.

He raised a little his forearm again, to gain some extra space, like an advertisement to his next move. I narrowed my eyes, looking with attention at his forehead. A bright red dot shone on it.

A strident whistling resonated.

Less than a second after, the fiery face of the blue Frenchman exploded in a filthy, bloody mash of brain. Blood, skin, muscles, bones... the whole skull of the man showered me, spattered the room, the walls and the floor, nearby his body. The blood covered my glasses, taking away my sight. I smelled the fresh blood, felt it moistening my mantle, so much that I was soon soaked by the tepid liquid.

I was paralyzed by his sudden death. The corpse of the Frenchman fell on mine, blocking me of any movement again. The shot came from a third man. My respiration was out of control.

Before I could manage to calm myself, I felt a presssure, my body slowly sliding in the void. Panic possessed me. I though that my temporarily blinding could bring me a kind of omniscience, or sharpen my other senses, but it was the contrary: I was terrified, disturbed by it. My sight, my most important sense, was preventing me from positioning myself in space, or even remember my last action. I never freaked out this much, already shocked from the confrontation with the Frenchman. I started to fidget, move my arms, hoping to free them in time. I was hearing many sounds, with no idea where they were coming from. I could recognize footsteps, and voices shouting at each other. I managed to pull out my wounded arm in a thud groaning, and quickly and nervously started to try to search for any support to catch. My fingers only found that old, fragile wooden floor, and sharp splinters. I started to feel my body tumble in the emptiness, staggering with the dead body.

While I was going to fall with him, I firmly grasped the corner of the piece of wood. Very quickly, I felt the the body of the man falling down, losing the hold he had on me. A intense twinge engulfed my arm as I fell into the emptiness. I moaned in pain. I was hanging through the space, without any chance to drag myself back to the shack. I heard the collision between the dead body and the ground, which made me terribly dizzy.  
I was completely panicked. My respiration was out of control, fast and loud, as my legs were wriggling in the air. I was about to scream. A painful stretch was taking over my arm, strength was leaving my body. I was controlled by my fear.

I heard new footsteps, along a rough voice. "Heavy catch little man!" he yelled.

I was feeling like my arm was going to tear apart. I tried to reach the planks with my other hand, in a desperate tentative. A creak sounded, made a small echo. I opened my eyes wide. The piece of wood cracked from my weight.

As my body was falling into the void, I couldn't hold a muffled scream. I felt the air getting through my mantle, whistling taking over my ears. And, before I could do or realize anything, a violent shock made me pass out.


	3. Chapter 3: The target

**We're here again for another chapter! Last time, our hero passed away from the fall. So, what's going to happen in this chapter?**

**_PugilisticSonofaGun_: Because spy is not in assassin's creed... so the stab failed! xD **

**_Navi2413_: thanks again! I always have a smile when i read your little review again.**

**And, I'd like to thank Govnuh again for checking the chapter. Leave a review if you liked it or if you have anything else to share!**

**Enjoy! **

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**Chapter 3: The target**

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I was hurt. So hurt. It was like as if a hammer was bashing my skull, or like a clapper's bell hitting my head. Then, the whole cacophony spread through the limits of my paralyzed body, increasing the amount of pain consuming me.

It was this torture that awakened me.

That awful headache dragged me out of the darkness. The heat began to reach my skin, my numbed limbs roasting under my soaked, bloody cloak, with the taste of blood in my mouth.. I was a little dizzy, and quickly, wanted to feel the light on my eyelids. I gently open my eyes, and understand right away that my glasses were still on my face, yet still covered with the Frenchman's remains. No one removed it, and I started becoming worried and nervous again. I was also feeling nauseous: at the rot smell of the cadaver, the corpse wasn't far away from me. I could still inhale the distinct scent of death.

I moaned in pain when I tried moving my arms. Okay. Think and try to remember. New-Mexico. Teufort. Killing contract. The weird guy with a television. The young women. The briefcase's thief.

Little by little, I recovered my last memories and senses back. I passed out after a strong impact, just after I felt myself glide in the wind. Then, nothing: the blackout.

I moved several fingers in order to check the good use of my muscles. A slight pain came across them. I waited for my temporary paralysis to clear itself, before I hardly raised my unscathed arm. I clumsily undid one of the two leather strips on the side of the glasses, taking them away. I was finally able to see the dazzling light, warming my entire body.

When the sun reached my eyes, I was blind for a few seconds; it drew some tears from my eyes. As I was recovering my sight, a shadow leaned over me, hiding the comforting sunshine from me, blurring my vision. Slowly, it got better, to find again its natural sharpness, to whine in surprise when I saw the man watching me.

A guy, sitting cross-legged next to me. He was wearing a heavy black rubber latex gas mask, keeping a close eye to my reactions behind his tinted plastic glasses.

He noticed my dazed expression, then my certain fear at my wide opened eyes. This man, or even woman -because there was no clue of his gender, it made me shivered by his mere presence. He was wearing a bright red, hazmat-looking suit, with a belt filled with explosive devices and ammo solidly tied to his torso. He had a flare gun fastened at his waist, and, the most terrifying part, had a stick, looking like the handle of an axe handle beyond his back. There was some traces of blood on his clothing, without mentioning the foul smell of burnt flesh. I could barely stare at his flamethrower lying next to him, a bead of sweat running down my neck.

"Mphmp mmph phumph?" He spoke, his voice thoroughly muffled by his mask.

I remained still, while he continued gazing at me. He softly turned his head to the left, then to the right, to observe me better. He even came closer to my face, staring at my brown eyes. Then, he slowly raised his arm with caution, bringing it closer to my terrorized face...

I knew it. He was going to roast me alive.

… and he waved his hand instead, offering a friendly salute.

Seriously, was I on drugs again? I was honestly doubting my mental health. Did I take a hit on the head when I fell? Faced to this so weird situation, I was in the right to think it. Few years ingesting acids and hallucinogenic misled me on many occasions...

I turned my head to avoid eye contact with the strange guy. The shack was upon us, pieces of wood all around the ground. I saw, at the same time, three silhouettes of three men, a few meters from us. There was a very tall, big bald man, still dressed in red, strangely looking like one of my past observations. Crossing his huge arms, he listened to the two fellows next to him. One of them was wearing small, round glasses, with dark hair, wearing a long, white medical gown. He was carrying a strange device in his back, wired to some kind of gun. The last, and surely the smallest, was scratching his forehead with an iron wrench. I could hardly see his face, since he was wearing an orange hard hat, and similar goggles to mine. And, again, he was in red clothes, with an apron: he looked like a mechanic with the big red toolbox lying near his feet.

"Huda phda mphmp phm!" The masked pyromaniac made wide signs through the air, trying to get attention from the three red man.

Even if I wanted, I was way too tired to turn and give him a look. So I just stared at the strangers, attracted by the signals of their comrade. They quickly arrived, the white coat man first, to scan me with suspicious, questioned looks.

"So, our little friend is alive!" he said, with satisfaction. Like the Frenchman, this one had a very loud accent, but a German one. "He vill not go anyvere. He's still too shocked." he whispered to the smallest.

"Yeah. He seems more tired than anythin' after the fall. But careful fellas. We don't know him, and what he was doin' here." he replied. "And any experience or somethin', doc."

"Ja, Ja." The German rolled his eyes.

"What a strange clothin'..." he wondered to himself.

Someone ran, far distant from us. I geard him coming toward us, and finally saw a boy, a dynamic young man approaching the red men.

"Scout." the mechanic announced, with a smile. "Did ya get Miss Paulin' already?"

"Yeah. The ol' witch wants him alive an' healed. Don't ask why, 'cause I dunno why." he said, with a Bostonian accent, while he was swinging his baseball bat though the air. According to his facial traits under his brownish cap, he was very young, maybe twenty years old at the most.

"The Administrator herself? But..." He opened his mouth, but remained in the silence. "Well, then. Anyway, thanks, Scout. That'll be all for now."

"Wow, the fuckin' man's lookin' like a fuckin' junkie." The teenager laughed as he saw my disguise. "Just like tha freakin' spy in f*** stupid clothes!"

The giant watched me at his turn, with his bright blue eyes, smirking at my sight. He seemed both interested and suspicious towards me.

"So, you heard, Medic?" He gave a look to the German. "You know what you have to do."

"Ja, Ja. I vill take care of him."

I felt like I my fate was in their hands, as they could end it in a simple move. Another noise interrupted the sympathetic meeting of my guards. Behind them, another person jumped off a rusty staircase, who was leading to the precedent shack. He stepped forward as the circle split up to let him walk and join them.

I stared him with my eyes fulled of surprise. He was carrying my rifle in his hands. He knew.

"What's that thing!" exclaimed the Bostonian, as he rushed to the man, trying to snatch the weapon off his hands.

"Don't touch that!" he growled, elbowing the whining boy away. "This is not a toy, and even less for you."

"You found it, Sniper?" asked the mechanic.

"Yeah, mate," confirmed the Sniper. He walked until he was facing me with all his size. A hat made of leather hid his face by its shadow, just as like his sunglasses, hiding his eyes by its lenses. He was, as I expected, dressed in red. "It's yours, isn't it?" he asked me, by a sign of the head, with his cold voice, contrasting his Australian accent.

I couldn't lie to the man. He climbed to find my gun, to confront me with it. He knew since the beginning that I wasn't here to check out the view, but to kill someone. Everybody knew.

I just nodded to answer him, without moving or saying any word.

"Just like Oi though."

This ''Sniper'' glared at me. He was still cold toward me, watching me just like to break through my mask, and stare at my whole face. The other red men became more hesitant at the sight of the gun, more careful about my person.

I thought and thought. I was in a bad situation, and every move could possibly lead me to death.

I remembered the contract, still in my trouser's pocket. I started to actively look for it, my hands searching through my mantle. It was folded in four, in the back pocket of my battledress. Everyone payed attention to my movements, and even more when I took a hand out of the cloak, to held the precious paper toward them.

Every man gave me strange looks, before the mechanic walked toward me, and smoothly took the paper. While he was unfolding it, in order to quickly read it, I closely watched the surroundings of the area. If it wasn't enough to prove them I wasn't an enemy, I will distract them, and attempt a run away, to escape from this place.

As I memorize the structures, paths and other obstacles, I looked upon the roofs, in case I have to escape by the heights. I saw then a very small detail that caught my entire attention. Someone was standing on the top of the main building, hidden by the powerful sunshine. I spared few seconds to my eyes, to let them get used to the light. My body stiffened when I was able to completely see the man.

I immediately reckoned the target, with his black suit, his old hat, and the blue briefcase on his back. He was here to insure himself that I was indeed held responsible for his robbery, even if his presence was a bit risky. But it wasn't the most important, since the moment I saw the dark rifle he carried on his shoulder.

I grew pale, as I managed myself to get up. My agitation alarmed the group, the guy with the gas mask first. He mumbled few words when I raised on my feet, but, quite unexpectedly, didn't try to prevent or stop me. I began to step forward, as the mechanic broke his reading. The man who had my M21 in possession firmly caught my forearm, an expression of anger on his face. The others remained silent, but still were as tense as the Australian. I tried to get rid of his hold, absorbed and panicked by the apparition of my target.

"Calm down! You're not going anywhere!" yelled the Aussie.

"The freakin' junkie is tryin' to..." I hastily pointed my finger at the thief's direction, making him shut up. He grumpily mumbled, before seeing, with shock, the man standing there. "What the hell! There's a BLU on that roof!" he exclaimed.

"Scout, what are you goin' on about..." the small mechanic stopped talking, at his turn, as the Bostonian keep swearing. "It's true!"

I was crawling in panic. While the attention was on the man, I quickly grabbed my weapon from the Australian's hands. He staggered, due to the sudden change of weight, and swore under his breath. "Bloody hell!"

As soon as I had my rifle in my hands, I searched for the thief; through the scope, although I couldn't correctly aim with the cut in my arm. I finally saw him, aiming at me, ready to shoot. I internally swore. He was going to shoot me! My heart raced. Without taking any time to concentrate, I pulled the trigger. The bullet went through the air, as a high-pitched tone went along with it.

I missed.

I prepared myself to repeat my moves, when the gun suddenly shook. The Australian had pulled the barrel, to point it at the sand, with both his hands. I growled with anger and fear.

"What the hell are you doing?!" While he asked me this, he was trying to take the gun away, with all his strength. Time was running out, as we were almost fighting to master the weapon. Other members of the group came with the attention to immobilize me.

"You don't undertand!" I shouted. "He's having a..."

I couldn't finish my sentence, when a shrill sound echoed.

Before I could say a single word, a sharp intense pain tore my should apart. I cast my eyes down, flared by the adrenaline, to see a huge spurt of blood. I didn't feel anything, first, and was just surprised by the bullet's impact. Then, I felt my bones crushing from the inside, the pain slowly reaching the spinal cords. I dropped the rifle on the dusty ground as I began to stagger. My legs gave out all of a sudden as I fell backwards. I dropped a hoarse sigh; my shoulder suffered too much.

"Reply!" someone ordered.

All was out of focus, beyond recognition. My sight blurred as my breath began slowing down, in respond to the violent shock. I could only hear tinnitusi along the fires.

I felt my body being taken by powerful hands, by the legs and the back, to hide me next to his cold chest. Then, he lifted me up, to carefully carry me. I lost my vision through the plumes of the red desert's dust, then to the dry ground. The giant Russian's body fell on the same ground, a part of his face damaged by a bullet hole. Rivers of blood were flowing from his skull.

A second order echoed, swears came from another.

My tentative to talk resulted in muffled whispers.

The man carrying me shouted something to the German, in front of us. He responded but I heard nothing.

I closed my eyes. I was about the fall in the deepest darkness, once again. A shot like this once was either lethal, or badly wounded. I wasn't able to handle reality. My blurred vision vanished as I entered a cold room, felling the hot, warm light of the sun fading away.


End file.
